


damnatio memoriae

by The_Resurrection_3D



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Army, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, POV First Person, Pining, Public Execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18913555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/The_Resurrection_3D
Summary: Shakespeare was wrong; most of us are not players.





	damnatio memoriae

**Author's Note:**

> It seems like the more things go wrong in my personal life the more willing I am to post. Interesting. Not that any of you guys need to worry about me. I'll be fine, just... you know. I've also been reading Joshua Mattson's debut _A Short Film About Disappointment_ and the narrator is so painfully Patryck it inspired me to try my hand at first person again. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll continue this. If I do, it will have some graphic animal death, though there is only a (past) public execution described in this chapter. Literary references are cited at the end.

Shakespeare was wrong; most of us are not players. To say that the average man is a player in the course of his own life is at best misleading and at worse tragically comedic. Orwell summarized it best ; the truest impulse for the average man is that towards being consumed. Stepping onto the whale's tongue and lying down in its stomach: the final irresponsibility short of death.

Yet I am here. Don't mistake me, I have no pretenses that this new 'Red Army' is going to accomplish much of anything, much less anything important, but you also must understand a whale has poor TV reception and few bookstores, even fewer sharp edges with which to drive into one's eye, solid walls against which to smash one's skull. What else am I supposed to do for fun?  
  
A large man with thick caterpillar brows asks for my name.   
  
Yves, I say. Our name-tags are fill-in, and all I have put is my old cat's name in my inherited doctor's script, which thus far not one person has managed to read. His says "Paul," upside down.  
  
We are pretending to mop up a hallway while we smoke, he lolled against the door frame going out into the camp's shipping bay, door propped open against his broad shoulder. Cigarettes are rare and subject to raids during piss-breaks, so we have decided to share one, one toke at a time. That was another thing Orwell prepared me for, excited me with - the breakdown of normal codes of conduct.  
  
I am still a bit caught, though; every emotion is still a little bit disgusting. Such as the way the setting sun paints itself across his arm, up his neck and unshaven jaw.   
  
Paul who is my superior. Paul who is so my type it's pathetic.   
  
He passes me the cigarette, his glove without fingers, leather black and well-worn. He doesn't look he's shaved anywhere but his face since his voice first cracked.   
  
_Funny name,_ he says. _I swear I've heard that name before._  Snaps his fingers. _Isn't that a --_  
  
A French designer, Yves Saint-Laurent, I say. And the name of the Pardoner in Patience Agbabi's rendition, from a crooked churchman to a self-help profiteer. _'You want to know the consequences of sinning? Don't ask a saint, O ladies, ask a sinner.'_    
  
Getting stabbed and left comatose for ten years, watched over by the corpses of the men I'd meant to poison. Shakespeare would approve.   
  
Paul smiles, but then seems to catch himself, and looks down, taking a long drag. A cool wind is blowing in; I can smell the snow in the air. There's still blood on the floor from a fight Yanov had picked earlier: nosebleeds, a few lost teeth. I'd had to press the cloth to the new recruit's face and listen to him blubber about his innocence, his poverty, his sick mother. Tedious, yet relaxing: a caretaker's white noise machine.   
  
Paul is wearing a fur-lined bomber jacket over his red sweater, one hand in his pocket, the other idly twirling the cigarette. I re-envision the way he'd gotten dressed this morning in the corner of my vision: sitting on his stiff pallet against the wall in only his boxers, back turned so we could all see the way his muscles tense and bunch as he put on his black undershirt. Exercise first thing after breakfast.   
  
He catches my eyes and I step out, sitting down on the top stone stair. Before us a lovely horizon of barbed wire fences and shipping crates. Beyond the first fence, where the other men usually play cards under the mid-day sun, Red Leader has had a dissenter hung. I can't see from here, but I wonder if his blood has already settled, lips blue while his feet are swollen purple. Overnight he may freeze so thoroughly you could cut off a limb without losing a single drop.   
  
A doe has found the corpse, lying in a patch of dead grass amongst the concrete as her infant licks at his pale fingertips.   
  
_Hey!_ Paul calls in Dutch. _Get away from there!_ He bangs his fist on the door so loudly they scatter. _Go on, get!_  
  
Better in them than strung up there, I say in English. Besides, they'll simply come back when Red throws him into the ravine tomorrow.   
  
A noise of discomfort. _Maybe so,_ Paul says, slipping away from his mother tongue. _But that doesn't mean it's gotta be in front of me. Are you sure you're not cold?_  
  
I am only wearing the sweater and my fingers are soon to be throbbing with pain. I say, No.   
  
Something hits my back, making my heart leap into my throat with an embarrassing noise. Paul laughs heartily. I twist to grab his jacket, turning my eyes back up to him - the cigarette dangles off the corner of his smile. He's rolling up his sleeves, gesturing for me to put it on. I drape it over my shoulders, allowing it to hang loose and open on me like a blanket instead.   
  
Thank you, I say, voice painfully quiet. Turn my gaze back to the hanged man, who is still in the wind, a shock of white with his shaved head and prisoner's clothes against the crimson sunset.   
  
_No problem,_ he says, _just throw it on my bed when you come back inside. I'm gonna go see if there are any leftovers; do you want anything?_  
  
If I take my gaze away from the sun I'll go with him. Turning into a pillar of salt would be better than sharing another dinner with him, returning his jacket in person, our fingers brushing for a fraction of a second too long to be accidental, having to sleep in too-small mats on almost opposite sides of the barracks. So small a room and yet so many entries in-between Auslander and Desmet.   
  
Turning into a pillar of salt would certainly be better than standing up and having him spot the beginnings of my erection. I ask without turning away, You think Red would appreciate the bold aesthetic choice we've left in the hall?   
  
_He'll be fine._  
  
I shrug. You know him better than I.   
  
A small laugh. _Unfortunately. Last chance for leftovers._  
  
I'm fine. Thank you.   
  
_Your loss_. The door falls shut. I pull the edges of his jacket closer in, imagining myself a child again, blanket tight around me as my brother and I watched TV with the volume off, because it was close to 11 pm on a Saturday, and we weren't supposed to even be using any electricity. Every creak a sign of the house's incoming treachery, every motion in the peripheral of my vision a tiny little monster, taking notes.  
  
Come to think of it, I called him a dissenter earlier, but I have not actually confirmed that's the case. Does it matter? Either way, the deer come back for us.  
  
I take my issued phone out of my pocket and send a picture of him to one of my private email accounts. We are only allowed phones with no service but the base's Wifi and which are regularly checked, but I am used to the rhythm: download a encrypted browsing app, delete, download again. Wiping the phone makes me feel like I'm on the outside again. I must remember to learn his name.  
  
The other Yves's home is now a museum. In mine, the statue of Hermione collects scarves and keeps her mouth shut.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Opening paragraph refers to that famous quote from Shakespeare's _As You Like It,_ as well as George Orwell's essay [ "Inside the Whale, which you can click through to read. ](http://orwell.ru/library/essays/whale/english/e_itw)
> 
> [2] Patryck is referring to one of Orwell's comments in ["Looking Back on the Spanish War,"](https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/essays-and-other-works/looking-back-on-the-spanish-war/) where he states civilian life makes all primary emotions a little bit disgusting. I'll be honest: I haven't read this one in a hot minute but I know I've quoted it in no less than two blowjob fics. One is Our Love Gorges; I'll leave the other up for you to find.
> 
> [3] The Pardoner is a character from Geoffrey Chaucer's _The Canterbury Tales_ , and is read by a lot of people as a chaotic neutral gay man. See Patience Agbabi's poem "Profit" from the book _Telling Tales,_ an excellent modern retelling.
> 
> [4] This last line is a reference to Shakespeare's _The Winter's Tale;_ the statue of the thought-dead Hermione comes back to life to reunite with her shitty husband and lost child. I've only ever read Jeanette Winterson's modern retelling and it honestly did not inspire much enthusiasm for the original. But that's just me. 
> 
> Anyway, as usual, feel free to contact me either in the comments or on [tumblr](https://the-resurrection-3d.tumblr.com/). All feedback is appreciated, and feel free to sound off if I should continue! Thanks for reading <3


End file.
